


Pretty

by GrumpyBones



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Brief yet grumpy Bones, Horrible flirts, Is it still miscommunication when they just don't talk about it?, M/M, Miscommunication, Pouty Vulcans, Restart to AOS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 03:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17195240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrumpyBones/pseuds/GrumpyBones
Summary: Half miscommunication, half misdirection, and half sheer idiocy. Can a veggie burger overcome?OrSpock walks into a diner and meets the world's most fascinating busboy who isn't a busboy.





	Pretty

While Spock can understand crew members requiring rest after such a taxing series of missions, he has not found himself among the afflicted. Additionally, mandating relaxation to a person who did not need, or want, it would be illogical. Therefore, he can find no reason to consider aiding the academy's science labs to be in violation of any orders that were broadly given to the ship as a whole. The Enterprise would be docked for nearly a month as it restocked for its next journey; Spock would find plenty of time to "recharge," to use Pike's words. Pre-discussing his plans with the Captain would be unnecessary, he decides, as the command was not directed resolutely at him. He concedes, however, that a better counter-argument for when he is inevitably caught could only be beneficial.

"Ground control to Major Tom ---?" Suppressing a flinch, Spock permits himself to admit, marginally, that perhaps his current inability to multitask suggests need for meditation after all.

"I apologize I was-" he attempts not to falter while looking up from his PADD, eyes meeting the interruption. "My mind was elsewhere."

The word ‘ _Golden_ ’ ricochets through his mind before managing to capture it, "Distracted Vulcan, that's a first for me." Spock feels an eyebrow quirk. Jim, according to a precariously pinned name-tag, clearly does not miss it as his smile becomes ever so slightly smug. "I'm afraid our vegetarian menu is limited to a garden salad or," pausing, pretending to scan the menu Spock has yet to assess, "a slightly smaller garden salad."

"I defer to your expertise, Jim."

There is only a slight delay before the amusement cracks suddenly, the corners of blue eyes crinkling before ducking his head as he turns away from the counter and back towards the kitchen. Spock forces his mind not to linger when his food is delivered with nothing more than a sincere, "Enjoy," returning his attention to his PADD and the work he was only slightly forbidden to do. Dinner is adequate at best and yet he is disproportionately pleased with his meal. The clanging of plates and hum of voices creates an unusually welcome background noise, so much so that nearly an hour goes by before he questions why he has yet to be handed a bill.

He scans for Jim, catching the eye of another server instead.

"Shift change, don’t think he wanted to bother you," the young man explains while retrieving a slip from his apron pocket. "Looks like you made an impression... and not much impresses Jim." His confusion only lasts a moment when he sees that the paper is merely a paid in full receipt.

He is just barely able to control the heat that begs to tinge his face when he finds, scrawled at the bottom, _'This one’s on me, Takov.'_ Perhaps meditation really is more urgent than he thought.

 

**********

 

He tells himself there is no logical reason to return. While the location is convenient, the same could be said for more Vulcan accommodating restaurants in the residing area. Quieter places. Cleaner ones. If Spock were the disciplined man he claimed to be, he would admit which specific criteria this certain establishment met that the others failed. Then again, if he were a purely logical man, this difference would not be criteria at all.

"Takov!" Spock mentally berates himself for immediately looking, tells himself it is the shock of hearing his native language and not a response to the word itself. Barely through the door and Jim is beckoning him over with a pat of the laminate counter before disappearing through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

"Got the chef on my side about adding a veggie burger," is how Jim announces his return.

"A healthier addition."

An unknown source from the back demands, "What the hell does that mean, Jimmy?"

 _"Ignore it!"_ Jim calls over his shoulder before redirecting his attention, "Hopefully you didn't have your heart set on another one of our renowned salads, I already told them to throw one on for you."

"It should suffice. Should your employers desire assistance expanding their menu I will be staying nearby during the remainder of the Enterprise's refitting."

The reaction is uncalculated, something Spock can already read is unlike Jim. His eyebrows climb higher on his face, actual emotion unclear. "Right, of course," seems to come out involuntarily before a smile gives way to bright white teeth. "Tell me about her."

Sincerity radiates off of the younger man and so he complies. In between coffee runs and customer checks, Spock indulges him with facts ranging from the upgraded distances their communication board now serves to the engineering department’s determination to boast the most encompassing food replicators in the fleet. By the look in Jim's eyes he'd have a captive audience should he start describing the texture of the carpets.

He is about to begin detailing the exemplary contamination protocols when he is finally interrupted. "Look at you praising the cafeteria when your lady is flaunting the most exciting intercoolers in the armada. It took the fleet years to find an effective way of slowing down the warp plasma enough to actually take the heat off without dropping the temp so quickly you'd create a traffic jam in the narcelles. The way those babies work I'd find it harder to believe a half drunk guy didn't help draw up the blueprints. When were you getting to these in your verbal tour?"

Not for the first time, it takes Spock a minute to gather his response from the shattered remains of his expectations. "While your praise of the scientific accomplishments of the engines is highly warranted, I simply did not know if the vernacular would be"-- time spent around humans has made it clear that word choice here is essential-- "confusing to you. I agree in your assessment of both Mr. Scott's contributions and his unique personality. Working with him has been quite fascinating."

Jim is playing with the container of sugar packets where their corners stick out. It is a clear diversion from where his attention actually lies. "I don't blame you for thinking warp mechanics are a little above a bus boy's pay-grade. No harm, no foul," his smile is crooked with falseness, not reaching the blue that Spock could become possibly fond of.

"Jim, to gauge one's intelligence on their knowledge of subjects they have not been taught would be illogical. It was not my intent to make a statement on your-"

Apron over his head, Jim then flips it to lay on his shoulder, calling to a girl who had only just entered the building.

"I'm taking off, you'll settle Mr. Spock's bill for me?" Her eyes bounce between them for a brief moment before an affirmative answer is given. Jim's eyes are back on him, expression transforming into a better impression of casual. "Shift’s over, Spock. Good talking to you."

He returns to the kitchen without giving Spock the chance to suggest why that information does not theoretically have to end their discussion.

Seconds later the newcomer appears, check in hand. "Don't know why he told me to settle you, your chair’s already paid up."

She hands him an itemized receipt:

 **1 Veggie Burger** **:** Lettuce, Tomato.

 **Special Instructions:** Extra Takov.

~~~~~~~~~~

 

He had thought about calling the diner, analyzed how odd the staff may find it against how peculiar it may seem to merely sit and wait for Jim's shift to start. Or, worse still, to have to return to his apartment and try again another day. No option seemed to compute outright in his favor. Which lead to his next quandary: He can either logically confirm when Jim will be there prior to going, possibly saving both time and energy, or he can _take his chances_ , to use a human phrase. Spock is adamantly a skeptic about all theories pertaining to the existence of luck. He is also somehow short of surprised to find Jim sitting atop one of the counter stools despite the odds he himself had calculated against such a result.

Jim’s head is turned just enough to make Spock out through the most peripheral of his vision, still mostly facing the muted Television that hangs above the countertop seating area. He can only see one of the corners of Jim’s mouth, catches the way it raises no more than 5mm before abruptly relaxing again. Spock has never appreciated the distinction between a smile and a smirk more, wonders which Jim has just let slip.

“What’s your poison?”

He takes the seat directly next to Jim’s, confident in his ability to imitate ignorance of human social norms should Jim tease him about it. He has no justification of his behavior should the follow up pertain to the Vulcan opinion about personal space. “Perhaps some toast. With tea, please.”

Jim disappears behind the swinging door with the same neutral face, emerging from the kitchen minutes later with Spock’s lunch and, graciously, returns to the seat he had vacated.

His attention mostly returns to the screen, occasionally eyeing Spock with a only a sliver of subtly. Jim is either truly this mediocre at feigning indifference or he is getting caught intentionally. Spock knows so little about the man and he would still generously wager against the former.

“Makes me almost miss Iowa,” Jim says without turning to him, chin jutting out towards the captioned news program, currently discussing the state of the area’s infamous traffic.

“Iowa?” A nod. “I confess, I know little of the area.”

He finally turns to face him, eyes meeting, as his mouth slides into a shallow smile. His eyebrow peaks in a question, asking something Spock can not interpret. He waits, answering in only a mirrored eyebrow which sparks a chuckle from the human.

Jim starts with idioms, corn fields stretching beyond horizons, cities where cows still outnumber humans, _‘Winters so cold you forget what ‘warm’ even is,’_ slowing winding closer to the line of personal. He shines with pride as he describes the real, dirt, roads that lead to his family’s property. The winding paths that always seemed to lead him on his next adventure. He learns about teachers, of friends, of multiple farm animals which Jim clearly considered more pet than livestock. His family is glazed over at best, a fact which Spock files that away without mentioning. He does, however, watch him closely, making the offhanded comment, ensuring through the occasional question that his interest is plainly known.

“When you really get out of the cities - some of that farmland is so isolated that it really redefines darkness. There’s nothing around here to compare it to. 1A.M. and this place is still lit up like the 4th of July. Street lights and shop signs and apartment buildings full of insomniacs with their windows blaring. But out there? There’s nothing for miles and miles. It can feel like the whole world must be asleep. Or maybe just _gone_. Like you’re the only one left? You look up and it seems like you can see to the other side of the universe.”

Spock can vividly recall the nights he spent surrounded by only silence and sand during his Kahs-wan. The unease of it, the beauty.

“There is no shame in missing it.”

Jim’s smile is bittersweet at best. “I can admit that I do. Some of it, anyways.”

He knows he is not being asked for advice and so he does not try to give it.

“Often the seemingly simplest things are not simple.” He considers saying how he understands why _home_ can be a complicated word, that he too has longed for a place he knows he does not belong. He is not entirely sure why he chooses not to.

Spock counts the seconds as they pass, 12 escape before Jim’s eyes return to his, pupils taking over most of the blue in the dim lighting. Too much passes over his facial features for Spock to read it all, his lips parting around contemplated words twice before letting them go. 5 more seconds counted off before Jim breaks the connection snapping between them when he closes his eyes, pretending to clear his throat.

“Enough about me. What’s Vulcan like?”

It is clearly a request for a distraction and though Spock is pondering the possibilities of all Jim did not say, he does not fault him for the request.

“Hot,” he replies.

Jim’s brief confusion is cracked open by laugh that seems to surprise even him. It is loud and jarring and one of the most fascinating things Spock has ever witnessed.

“How poetic! You never told me you were such a romantic, Spock.”

“You were not so enamored with my communication skills the last time that I was here.” He truly did not intend to bring it up and he cannot confidently say it was wise to do so. Jim considers him before coming to some conclusion, the tension in his shoulders easing out as he shakes his head.

“I can be a bit of a sensitive snowflake sometimes. I know you didn’t mean anything by it. And even if you _did_ I couldn’t exactly blame you for it.”

“I promise you, Jim. It would not take me 47 minutes to consume 2 slices of toast if I truly thought about you what you believed me to be insinuating.”

“Are you insinuating that my toast isn’t worth savoring?”

Rolling his eyes is a very near miss, “It is _toast_ , Jim.”

The mood clicks back into some form of alignment after that, the conversation is different in a way he can not define, even if it is sparse. It weaves and wanders in a familiarity that have yet to earn. They sit together in the quiet diner until Spock can no longer deny he has other places to be.

“Fine, but let me get you one of those to go since I never even offered you a refill,” Jim compromises as he takes Spock’s chip, insistent on paying this time.

He emerges with a lidded paper cup, the smells of lemon and ginger coming from it. _Tekov,_ is messily scribbled on the side in the same fashion the local baristas use in crowded cafes. Only here there is no threat of the customer receiving the wrong beverage.

He stands, gripping his hand around the warmth a little tighter when he decides, illogically, to ask a question full well knowing the answer, “You are aware of the meaning of this word?”

The bell above the door chimes at exactly the wrong time, Jim’s eyes wander over his shoulder towards the invasion before sliding ever so gracefully back to his. He takes one step forward, than another, both towards Spock and the two girls waiting patiently at the hostess stand. Jim waits until he is as close as he will be before passing him, the space between them closing to nearly .5 meters when he leans in, pausing just long enough to assure, “Oh. I’m very aware.”

If anyone noticed how _green_ his face looked on his walk back to the Academy, they seem to blame it on the windchill.

 

**************

 

It has been only two days since he has frequented the Little Dipper Diner when a text communication wakes him at 0300. His concern dissipates immediately as he finds only a short list of what appear to be eating establishments in the local area sent from an unknown device.

_I believe you have contacted the wrong number._

_And I believe,_ comes the response a moment later, _that you must be getting hungry by now. That's all the places I know that serve some pretty decent Vulcan._ Followed shortly by, _And by that I mean all the places I could find. The general Earth public doesn't seem to find your world's palate very palatable._

He hesitates only briefly before replying, _How did you come about my number, Jim?_

 _Are you saying you're upset that I happened upon it?_ Spock doesn't respond immediately and is soon rewarded. _I may have found it through some unconventional means._

_You are insinuating that you have hacked into one of Starfleet’s databases to procure my information. Risky considering the highly illegal nature._

_Don’t you mean, ‘impressive’?_

Spock refuses to directly answer that, for both their wellbeings. _It is also unnecessary considering I would have offered it to you if you had only asked._

_Asking involves seeing you._

A warmth Spock fails to ignores flares, just briefly, before his controls take back over. _The science department needed my help on an experiment many would consider time sensitive. It has been considerably time consuming._

There is a full 10 minute wait before a response comes through.

_You never told me what color the ship's curtains were._

_Should the room have windows, Starfleet does not dictate what color window treatments are to be hung in officer's quarters and allow a large degree of customization, especially for longer missions._

_Just come visit, Takov._

He tells himself it is far too late to file a complaint on the word usage. To do so now would only be an encouragement.

_Yes, Jim._

 

**********

 

It is almost a week but he does comply.

For some indeterminable reason Spock feels eager to bring up his recent work in the botany lab, as if it is of the utmost importance that it be known he was not simply busy elsewhere. Despite their continued correspondence, the subject had not been discussed again after Spock’s brief explanation during their precariously initiated first comm.

"They have found a way to alter the seed DNA in such a way that it will only produce plants immune to most mold species, even after drying. So far success has only been found in the one grain division but theoretically the mutation should be compatible with a diversity of common crops."

Spock is fascinated at the way Jim's expression finds the line of awe and somber, walking it with grace. "Thank god."

When nothing else is offered, "Are you alright, Jim?" A moment of indecision reads as a war across his suddenly older features. "I apologize, I did not mean to pry-"

"Tarsus IV," he announces. "I was there. Let's not talk about it."

Merging the carefree character he is beginning to know with this new information is complicated and yet, Spock is not surprised to find that it explains as much as it asks. What is surprising, however, is the anger it produces. More solid than when he had first learned of the atrocities the people of the colony had endured as a whole, _Kaiidth_ not being enough to settle the very human emotion. Eye contact remains.

"Of course."

 

~~~~~~~~~~

 

_Favorite color?_

Spock has only just gotten home from the same diner Jim is undoubtedly texting him from. 3 days in a row he has sat on one of Jim’s stools, PADD on the counter in front of him. His work to conversation ratio is down a considerable amount. He tells himself he not supposed to be working at all, therefore he is just following orders.

_Color preferences serve no purpose. Therefore having one would be considered illogical._

_Uh huh, sure. First word?_

_M’aih. Mother._

_Aww, you softie. Any pets?_

_When I was a child. A sehlet._

Before Spock can decide whether he is supposed to be more than a passive participant in whatever game Jim is playing another comm message comes in.

_Play any instruments?_

_Jim, I do not remember us scheduling an interview. Are you contemplating writing a biographical piece on me?_

_Good guess, Mr. Tekov. And it is absolutely imperative that I get your favorite color on the record._

He knows Jim will not stop until he has an answer that satisfies him. The success rate of his, _‘Pleading Vulcan,’_ as Jim calls it, has rapidly diminished with their continued interaction. He has been asked this question before, mostly by other humans, but this is the first time the possibility of an answer comes to mind.

_I suppose I may be able to honestly claim a preference for blue, should I be forced to pick one._

_Obsessed with that science uniform or something?_

_Or something._

It is as bold an answer as he allows himself to make. The next reply does not come as fast. Jim could be doing many things, distracting him. The diner is not closed yet, a group of customers could have just come in. Or perhaps Jim is helping the kitchen staff get ahead on dish washing---

 _God, you’re an ass sometimes._ Spock is near certain this is probably a compliment considering the source. Only a breath goes by before his suspicion is confirmed by, _I’m off tomorrow, fyi. See you on Friday?_

Spock will take the day off to catch up his work with the labs. Once he is caught up there will be no logical reason not to indulge with the little leave he has left.

_I will see you on Friday, Jim._

 

_****************_

 

He can not be certain that Jim even looks up before sliding the empty containers his way, followed by a box claiming to contain sugar packets. There are no instructions offered from his companion as he settles into the booth opposite of him, their eyes only meeting briefly before he gets to work.

Around them the silence is filled with the now familiar sounds of the diner. A couple near them, the only current patrons, speak softly to each other over their plates. Terry, the current hostess, clicks out messages on her comm unit without even a slight pretense of disguising it. The light in the far corner which has been in distress since Spock’s first visit has now begun to slightly buzz in complaint. Closer, the only sounds are of crinkling paper and rustling granules as Jim not so subtly races him, his blue and pinks against Spock’s white.

“Ha!” Jim proclaims, suddenly, as he reaches across the slanted table to snatch the last caddy just as Spock goes to deposit his share into it.

Not knowing the meaning of defeat, fist full of an obviously random ratio of packets Jim shoves forward - causing their fingers to brush roughly as they attempt to fill it at the same time. There is a snap of connection, too long of a pause, and suddenly a pink tinge taking over Jim’s cheeks that, to Spock’s relief, is evidence he felt it too.

As Spock gathers his words, Jim instantly becomes a different person than the quiet, assured man that he has been for the past 40 minutes. He chuckles at seemingly nothing, stops just as abruptly. The ceramic caddies clink together as he collects them hastily, arms wrapped widely around them as he shoves them to the side.

“I never did ask you,” he asks, as if once again racing. His voice comes out as tilted as the table, his pitch higher than usual. He must hear it too by the way his face scrunches up for a brief second, the next wave coming out more casually. “How’d a guy like you end up in a dump like this?”

“I received an advertisement in the mail.”

“And?” Spock does not entirely understand what he is being asked and therefore merely raises an eyebrow in what Jim has started calling, _'the Vulcan equivalent of a shrug'._ “That’s it? You were the unasking recipient of one of our horribly outdated brochures and just decided, hey, that place is as good as any to get food poisoning?”

“As I have not yet fallen ill after numerous meals here you will have to concede that the selection has warrant.”

Jim is shaking his head in amusement. “And here in the general sense? I know ‘fleet brought you to California. What kind of incentive program are they running on the down low to get your number on the roster?”

“I am not the only Vulcan in the organization.”

“You are, however, the only one not answering the question.”

He takes a breath as examines which pieces of the much longer truth he wishes to share. He wants to be honest. He thinks he may even want to be known. But deeper than all of that, he does not want to be pitied.

“After the conclusion of my normal schooling I was accepted into the Vulcan Science Academy.”

Jim’s eyes go wide for a moment and Spock silently appreciates that he will not first have to metaphorically assemble a shrine of the place before lighting it on fire. “There’s no way you’ve already graduated?” Blue eyes scan him up and down rapidly. “Or are you an even worse kind of child prodigy than I think?”

“As I did not attend, I did not graduate.” Jim is so silent that he’s bordering on immobile. Searching the space between them for the permission to ask the obvious, _‘why?’_ “During the council’s announcement of my acceptance a… Difference of opinion between us emerged. One which made it clear my future lay elsewhere.”

Jim’s too curious now to wait, a slow inching anger taking over his expression even though there is not yet reason to be. “Opinion about what?”

He forces it out without hesitation, even if it is an octave lower than his normal speaking voice, “My human mother.”

There is a second, maybe two, when the still immobile Jim becomes somehow even stiller. Spock thinks he may nearly see the cogs inside him churning as Jim’s brain pans through the layers of information these three words contain. Those three words may say more about himself than the rest of his vocabulary combined ever could. It is as freeing as it is terrifying. He steals himself for a myriad of questions.

“Well,” comes the response finally. Lighthearted with comically dramatic resign. “That settles it then.”

“To what are you referring?”

Jim could not be possibly holding this against him. He would not --

“I’m simply going to have to rescind my application.” His eyes are warm and bright. Sadness only lurking at the very far edges of a tooth wide smile.

“I am sure the council will be devastated,” he replies, relieved, around a held breath.

Jim laughs too loud as he always does when Spock allows himself to be pulled into a joke. The noise created a physical sensation inside of him, like the uncoiling of a strangling rope. Eased, Spock begins to lean back to rest once against the wall of booth. His spine straightens away from the shared space over the table where they’ve both, unaware, begun to hunch over it. Jim's hand once again shoots forward - this time hovering over his own for a mere second, deliberate, before grabbing his shirt covered wrist instead.

“Fuck ‘em, Tekov. They have absolutely no idea what they’ve let go of. Next time you run into them you’ll tell them Jim -- Jim says thank you very much for making the biggest mistake of their lives.”

“Should I happen to run into the entire council I will share the sentiment.” A shared smile, a not wholly explored emotion, and a clenching hand remains for much too long.

Until, “Jim --?” as the named suddenly seems to snap out of it, quickly pulling away.

“I never offered you something to eat. I really am the worst at this,” he slides off of the vinyl, out of their just built communal space.

“It is of no consequence,” he says. _We both know I did not come here to eat,_ he does not.

“Yeah, yeah. Veggie burger, coming right up.”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

He learns of an individual only referred to as “Bones”, a dear friend Jim is excited to reunite with soon.

He speaks of Vulcan, leaving out plenty, but elaborating much.

He frequently asks about Sam and Winona, individuals who no longer feel unknown.

He learns the names of every staff member who services The Little Dipper Diner, accepts their teasing with grace, accepts his title as, 'Jimmy's Assistant,' with less so.

He feels the days, illogically, going by more quickly than they should.

 

**********************

 

Jim takes the stool next to Spock loudly, so near closing Jim has finally given up the charade of work to be done.

"Less than a week till blast off. You getting excited, Takov?"

He has conceded to the term of endearment, given up even the pretense of a disapproving look.

"Excitement is a human emotion. While I believe that much benefit may come from our missions-"

"Thou dost protest too much."

Spock stays silent, forfeiting. If he argues Jim's point then he is only proving it. He imagines Jim must be wildly inclined to the Earth game chess.

"So, no human emotions. That mean you won't miss me, Spock?" Features deceptively playful, false bravado.

"While our interactions will clearly have to adapt, I do not see why I should have occasion to miss you, capable or not. It is unlikely the Enterprise will travel beyond the point where inter-space communication with Earth is impossible." An unintended pause. "If you should wish it."

"Are you saying that you're ready and willing to write me some love letters?"

"Your habit of joking about subjects instead of simply saying what you would like is fascinating."

There's a moment of sputtering which pleases Spock more than it should before Jim finds his verbal footing. "Well, I owe you a heads up. I'm not sure how much I'm going to be working these next few days, I have some business that I need to wrap up... take care of. Not that the rest of the staff would mind you hanging around, we're all pretty fond of you."

 _This is disappointment_ , Spock thinks.

"That may be for the best. There is much paperwork to be done before we 'blast off' and I am positive Captain Pike would not turn down my help."

"Paperwork! Space never sounded so boring."

"Traveling at warp speed on a ship not fully inspected should not seem preferable to a member of such a fragile species," he ignores Jim's exaggeratedly wounded expression. "In addition, there are already briefings filed on the first intended assignment. Confidential briefings," he adds at Jim's newest reaction. "Inventory counts, personnel transfers -"

The change in Jim's posture is almost audible.

"You're in charge of that?"

"Not precisely. Initial approval, of course, goes through the Captain. However, all transfers have been finalized and simply have to be systematized. I find paperwork far less tiring than a human-"

Jim oddly ignores the insult, "Any of the new bodies stand out?"

Spock considers him for a moment, trying to find the underlying question Jim is asking as is his usual angle. He can find no motive other than curiosity.

"Actually there are several promising members coming aboard. One cadet is particularly auspicious. He recently graduated early from the academy with honors. Most impressive, while in attendance he was pursued by Science, Engineering, and Command concentrations until choosing the latter," criticism of said choice nearly concealed.

Jim continues to look at him in an peculiar way, eyes too fixed on his, not wandering and skirting playfully as is normal. "He sounds like quite a catch, Mr. Spock."

"I agree. It should be quite beneficial to have Cadet Kirk on the ship."

A sincere smile, ducked head. Curious.

"Well," Jim begins as he stands, Spock following his lead as he reads the clock over Jim's shoulder, "I hope he lives up to your expectations."

"Me as well," tucking his pad under one arm, "Will I be seeing you again before the Enterprise departs?" His desired answer is blatant in his tone, no intention of hiding it.

"Just try and stop me."

Before he can fully turn away his sleeved forearm is grabbed, held just too tightly between golden fingers. "And Spock? You can write me anything, any time."

Spock soon leaves, trying not to calculate days into minutes.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The Enterprise can be seen docked in the distance despite the hour, security measures ensuring the literal spotlight on her be as abrasive as the figurative one. Spock has had the entire journey from his apartment to contemplate the meaning behind the choice of location and can find no explanation other than Jim being a hopeless martyr, irrational as the rest of his species.

"You beat me, of course."

Spock finds himself relieved when Jim chooses a place on the bench far too close to be considered polite, his fingers gripping his knees. A few centimeters is all that lies between the cloth of their pants, Jim's warmth near enough to feel if Spock concentrates.

"I regret that I have not been able to see you for the better part of this week due to our equally busy schedules."

"Why? Because you happen to be leaving the solar system tomorrow?" He doesn't look at Spock, staring deftly ahead at the gleaming ship in the distance.

"Yes." Jim's smile is a surprise to both of them, his eyes squinting as his cheeks give way to it. "Perhaps it is time to discuss -"

"No," adamantly. "Let's just have this, yeah? Before everything changes? Please, Takov."

He doesn't answer, a decision that clearly pleases Jim as he finally presses the line of their thighs together, holding them there. Spock gives himself permission, after too brief a consideration, to indulge. He adjusts his arm along the length of his thigh until the back of his hand is just barely resting on Jim's own. They both feel the hum of the connection between them, he knows.

They do not acknowledge it.

They do not move.

 

****************************

 

Spock has no good explanation for why he continues to scan the area, clearly looking for something he does not even expect to find. Jim is not allowed to be here, the fact that he still is surprised to not find him present should be concerning, not disappointing.

He turns at the sound of Pike calling his name to find the sight of him all but dragging Jim in his direction. For one brief moment he tries to assemble an explanation to offer the Captain to excuse Jim’s trespassing when suddenly the gold Starfleet issue uniform he is adorning resolves the issue.

"Mr. Spock! Fantastic. You've heard of Mr. Kirk, I’m sure?" He forces himself to nod. "I have some history with his family, wanted to make sure he knows I'll be keeping a close eye on him. Couldn't hurt to know I have a Vulcan in my back pocket." Spock barely registers the words as he and Jim's eyes hold fast to each others. "Besides, figured you'd want to meet him after all the fuss."

"Yes, Captain."

But the Captain's attention has already been summoned, called away by an engineering member claiming a shuttle is making an odd noise when firing up. "We're not even on board yet and she's already giving us trouble."

Jim, overeager, "Perhaps I could help, sir-"

Pike waves him off as he starts to walk away, "I mean it, Kirk. Behave yourself."

"Explain."

"I didn't even know who you were at first!" Spock continues to stare. "Then suddenly you're my superior officer who doesn't think I'm capable of knowing what warp coils are! God, Spock. How do you think I figured out your name? Vulcan on the Enterprise, now that's a short list." A spark of realization, "You did realize you never told me, right?"

He, unfortunately, did not. "Jim, that is not my main concern at this moment."

"You don’t understand," his arms sag by his side, voice beyond pleading to something that sounds too simple and small.

"Then help me to."

"My father is a legend. Always was. I'm trying now, Spock, but I haven't exactly always lived up to that. People talk. They think they know who I am long before I'm given a chance. I'm not saying it's uncalled for, in part," his face is open wide as he worries his lips, clearly forcing himself not to look away. "I just didn't want you to be one of them."

"Jim, our damn ride’s about to leave!"

Jim's expression curls into defeat, if it had not before. "I'll be right there, Bones!"

"Listen, I know how you must feel. You have to know by now that I'm not that guy, Spock. I’m a firm believer in the run around being a waste of time, I would never intentionally waste yours. I’ve meant all of it, context included or not." A throat clears loudly over his shoulder, a sign that the medic will not be giving up that easy. "But if I don't get over there Bones is either going to give them the all clear to abandon me or come over here and I honestly can't say which is worse. Just… don't hate me completely, okay?"

Spock tries to motion some form of agreement despite feeling as if he may be on the edge of some kind of cliff. It is only when Jim --Kirk-- starts walking away that he realizes he alone is in control of whether they stand together or separated by that chasm.

"Cadet Kirk!" He immediately whips around. One eyebrow lifted in question, in hope. "Perhaps you could comm me when you find yourself available. In an attempt to indulge your curiosity about window treatments I could show you my quarters."

"God damn it, Jim! Stop smiling at your boyfriend and get your ass over here. You're going to the same place for christ's sake."

Jim starts walking backwards towards the verbal assault, "Should I correct him?"

"I find no logical reason to. And Jim?" He pauses his retreat, uncertainty regaining ground over his expression. "The hue of your uniform is quite complimentary to your skin tone. You look... pretty."

He laughs, real and full. "Now, now, Takov. We’ve both agreed that title is yours."

**Author's Note:**

> Oh I am so tempted to make myself miserable and write a longer version of this. Also so very tempted to rewrite it from Jim's POV (though that's near solely to write more grumpy, screaming, Bones).
> 
> Originally Published in an issue of the [This Simple Feeling ](http://thissimplefanzine.tumblr.com/) zine.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


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